


(Don’t) Stop me Now

by Haydenn11



Series: Good Omens Greatest Hits [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley and Aziraphale do not have sex in this, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drug Use, M/M, One Shot, Post 1960's Scene (Good Omens), Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Semi-Public Blow Jobs, Sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism, Song: Don't Stop Me Now (Queen), Songfic, This Does Not End Well, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, angsty angst, no happy ending, the author is sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28687050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haydenn11/pseuds/Haydenn11
Summary: 7. Don't Stop me Now“Crowley, I work in soho. I hear things.” Aziraphale had apparently exhausted his patience for pleasantries.“And what have you heard, angel?” Crowley asked, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice, not that he tried very hard.“That you’ve been… indulging too much in drink and illicit drugs and… other things.”Azriaphale shot him a furtive glance like he was waiting for confirmation of the ‘other things.’ Even through the haze of alcohol Crowley could feel the angel’s questioning eyes burning him. The ache in his jaw seemed more pronounced than before and shame welled in his chest. He kept his face unreadable and stared out the windshield. He did not know what Angel had heard but was determined to not confirm or deny any of it.Aziraphale continued, “I’m here to put a stop to it before you hurt yourself or anyone... else.”“Oh, you’re here to stop me!” Crowley gave a hollow laugh. When he spoke again his voice was harder and more snakelike than Aziraphale had heard it in a long time.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Greatest Hits [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069535
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	(Don’t) Stop me Now

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Drug Use. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Specifically, sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism. 
> 
> Reminder this series will span over a variety of ratings and tags and content warnings. Please make sure you are paying attention to those.  
> Alright. I am aware that this is the second time in a row that I took a happy, bouncy song and turned it into something less than happy and bouncy. "Don't Stop me Now" for all its catchy, dancableness, is about a bender, and in my experience benders come from nowhere good and lead to no where good. Ergo, this does not begin or end particularly well.  
> The explicit rating is earned here, but again, not a particularly good thing. Crowley and Az do not have sex in this. The explicit scene is marked if you'd rather skip. You should still be able to get the gist without it.  
> Comment and feedback always welcome. Please let me know if I'm forgetting any tags. Thanks.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale didn’t close the Bentley’s door hard, but he didn’t have to. His words had taken the air out of Crowley’s lungs more effectively than a slammed door ever could. Seven little words left him shattered, the pieces of him spiraling like water down a drain. 

What the fuck did it even mean? _You go too fast for me._ What a nonsensical thing to say? Not in the least because it was emphatically not true. How could he, who had been patiently loving Aziraphale from a distance for 6,000 fucking years, possibly be going too fast? 

The unfairness of it burned through him, causing his hands to shake and his eyes to burn. His grip on the tartan thermos tightened until he had the good sense to miracle it safely home before he crushed it. The burning in his chest changed, morphed until it was no longer a sensation but a living thing, some poor, tortured animal caged behind his ribs and struggling desperately to be put out of its misery. 

Crowley poured himself out of the Bentley and onto the sidewalk. The tortured thing in his chest looked around frantically for somewhere to flee, somewhere to hide. He settled for a nightclub across the street, making for the flashing neon like it was a lighthouse. 

He entered the club in a whirlwind of smoke and chatter. He scanned the room, unsure what he was looking for until he spotted it, a roped off staircase with a sign that said “Members Only.” Thinking it would be more his scene, the tortured thing in his chest propelled him across the room and up the stairs, slipping past the bouncer as silently as a shadow. 

The room above was even smokier, dimly lit, and plusling with music from a band playing on a small stage. The crowd was mostly men dancing together more closely than the order of the day might have deemed appropriate. Crowley scanned the room, once more unsure of what he was looking for. He spotted a man on the far side of the room and the creature in his chest tensed. Crowley forced it to relax and sauntered to the bar, ordering a drink, and placing himself directly into the man’s line of vision. 

He downed the first drink and was on his second, playing idly with the rim of his glass when the man finally looked up at him, meeting Crowley’s dark glasses with a questioning look. Crowley let the tiniest bit of demonic power seep into the look, imbuing it with heat and desire and the slightest bit of temptation. Like he’s seen so many times before, the man’s face turned to a look of pure carnal interest. He prowled across the room never once taking his eyes from Crowley until until he was standing over him. 

“Wanna dance?” The man growled into Crowley’s ear. 

Crowley looked at the man up close for a moment. He was too tall. His jaw too square and the planes of his chest were too flat. His hair was blond, but a touch too dark. He was too modern, too fashionable, too smooth, and too hard. He was too much, and somehow, not enough. Not even close. His eyes, however, were just the right amount of blue. They were wide and wanting and seemed to swallow Crowley whole. The tortured thing in his chest purred.

“You’ll do.” He breathed as he let the man lead him to the dance floor. 

Three songs later and they were stumbling into the men’s bathroom kissing furiously. Crowley was pressed against the counter swirling his tongue around the man’s and feeling hands wander beneath his shirt. He wrapped his legs around the man’s waist and pulled closer. 

“You wanna do a line?” The man pulled back slightly to whisper into Crowley’s mouth.

“Hng?” Crowley chased after the man’s lips, but the man was busying himself with a film canister he pulled out of his inner jacket pocket. He poured a small amount of white powder onto the counter and arranged it in a neat line before handing Crowley a tightly rolled fiver. 

Crowley hesitated for a moment before accepting the rolled bill and bending over the counter. The white powder smelled like gasoline and broken dreams and somehow it was the most amazing thing Crowley had ever smelled. That made him pause for a second time. What the fuck was he doing? He could leave. He should leave. He could walk out of this club, go home, pull himself together, and get the fuck on with things‒ But that would hurt. Crowley didn’t want to hurt anymore and the tourtured thing in his chest agreed. 

The first thing he felt was numbness, radiating through his nose and down his throat. Then came a feeling of elation. Very suddenly, nothing mattered, nothing hurt, nothing could bring him down. He felt invincible, unstoppable. Suddenly he felt very awake and alive and fast. He felt like a shooting star leaping through the sky, like a racecar, like he was defying the laws of gravity merely by existing. 

The man finished his own line and kissed Crowley again. His tongue tasted like lightning and Crowley deepened the kiss, chasing that taste. He ran his tongue across the man’s bottom lip and nipped at it hard enough for the man to hiss. 

“You are so hot.” he groaned into Crowley’s lips. 

“I guess that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit.” Crowley quipped, moving his hands to tug at the man’s belt. 

“Hey, gorgeous, what’s the rush? We don’t have to do this here, we can go back to mine.” 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“No, but it doesn’t have to be a fast thing,” He searched Crowley’s face for a moment, “unless you want it to be.”

“I like fast,” Crowley growled, “I wanna go lighting speed. I wanna be super-fucking-sonic.”

The man laughed softly, “Alright then, let’s make a supersonic man outta you.”

**[SKIP]**

Crowley went down on his knees, snapping softly as he went to ensure they would not be disturbed. He undid the man’s belt, tugged his pants down, and pulled his rapidly hardening length into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the tip and hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard. The man gasped and his hips shuddered forward involuntarily. Crowley moaned around the man's cock, placed a hand on either of his hips and encouraged him forward again and again. 

Crowley was lucky he didn’t technically need to breathe because the man’s thick cock and steady thrusts were not affording him much opportunity. He was also lucky the coke had numbed the back of his throat. He unhinged his jaw to allow the man deeper access and felt a savage satisfaction in the way his eyes stung and in the spittle and precum that dripped down his chin. 

It was like the man was trying to defeat him, to fuck his mouth into submission, but Crowley wouldn’t go. He was invincible after all. A hand twisted in his hair and the man’s thrusts became harder and faster, but Crowley wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t come up for air, wouldn’t admit defeat. The buzz in his head kept him feeling elated and unstoppable, even as the man’s blue eyes bored into his dark glasses, threatening to swallow him whole. Crowley couldn’t feel how wrong this was, how empty and hollow. The part of his brain still clinging to sobriety knew he would feel these things later. For the moment, however, he only saw blue and the buzz in his head only allowed him to feel a twisted sense of power and control. 

The man shouted. His hips bucked erratically and hot come dripped down Crowley’s throat. He swallowed greedily and extracted himself from the man. Hands were on him as soon as he stood. Grazing his torso, traveling to the button on his too tight jeans. Lips sucked hungrily at his neck accompanied by little moans and bites that Crowley suddenly couldn’t stand. He pushed the man away, firm, but not unkind. 

“What about‒” The man started to ask, sounding breathless. 

“I’m alright. Thanks anyway.” Crowley wiped his face with a wad of toilet paper and left the bathroom, snapping as he went. The man wouldn’t remember him. He’d remember the blow job, Crowley wasn’t about to let good work go unappreciated, but the details of his partner would never be recalled with any clarity. 

**[END SKIP]**

* * *

The next several months passed in a similar fashion. He would go out to a discreet member’s only club. Sometimes in Soho, sometimes in other parts of the city. He’d get drunk and snort cocaine, drop acid, or smoke week depending on what was available wherever he ended up. Then he’d find someone with eyes blue enough to get lost in or curls blonde enough to twist his fingers into and he’d pass the time with him, on his knees in some dingy bathroom or dirty alleyway. 

As far as the world was concerned, indeed as far as Crowley was concerned, he was having a great time. He was out and about embracing the city and spirit of the decade with vigor. He was, in short, carpe-ing the fuck out of some diems. 

The small part of Crowley’s brain that was still clinging to sobriety and reason was the only one who knew this to be false. The small, rational part of his brain knew that Crowley went home alone and collapsed into his bed and let the emptiness of it all consume him until it was time to get up and do it all over again. 

The longer the months dragged on, the more the rest of him came around to seeing things from the rational part of his brain’s point of view and protested. His body was tired. The abuse he was inflicting upon it wouldn’t actually kill him, but it didn’t stop his body from complaining. 

His knees protested being lowered onto concrete and asphalt. His liver and stomach rebelled against liquor and illicit substances. The rational part of his brain begged him for sleep. Nearly all of corporation was begging for him to stop the relentless assault, but the tortured, touch-starved thing in his chest ignored their pleas. Instead the tortured thing chanted a mantra, a steady rhythm of “Don’t stop me. Don’t stop me.” as it foreyed out into the world every night in search of stimulants and poor substitutions to help him feel something, anything, besides the pain he was putting off. 

Crowley was heading to his car after one such encounter. His usual swagger more pronounced due to the alcohol altering his depth perception. He massaged away the ache in his jaw left by his latest poor substitution as he turned the corner on the street where he left the Bentley. He stopped dead. The Bentley was parked a little ways down the street and in the passenger seat was an unmistakable head of platinum curls waiting for him. 

“Ssshhit!” He hissed. He debated on turning around, walking back to the club and pretending he never left. He was stopped by the cold blue-eyed stare clearly visible in the rearview mirror. Too late for running. 

“Evening, angel.” He slurred, settling into the driver’s seat. 

“Evening.” Aziraphale responded stiffly. 

“To what do I owe the pleas‒”

“Crowley, I work in soho. I hear things.” Aziraphale had apparently exhausted his patience for pleasantries. 

“And what have you heard, angel?” He asked, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice, not that he tried very hard. 

“That you’ve been… indulging too much in drink and illicit drugs and… other things.” 

Azriaphale shot him a furtive glance like he was waiting for confirmation of the ‘other things.’ Even through the haze of alcohol Crowley could feel the angel’s questioning eyes burning him. The ache in his jaw seemed more pronounced than before and shame welled in his chest. He kept his face unreadable and stared out the windshield. He did not know what Angel had heard but was determined to not confirm or deny any of it. 

Aziraphale continued, “I’m here to put a stop to it before you hurt yourself or anyone... else.”

“Oh, you’re here to stop me!” Crowley gave a hollow laugh. When he spoke again his voice was harder and more snakelike than Aziraphale had heard it in a long time. “The demon Crowley need a good thwarting, eh? Been a few centuriesss sssince you’ve given me a proper one. Need to blow off some sssteam, angel? Need to ssstretch your wingsss? Practice your sssmiting?”

“No! Goodness, Crowley, I’m worried about you. You’re going‒“

“Too fast! I know! Sssix thousand years is somehow too fast for you!” He was shouting now. The words stung on their way out. He was thankful for his glasses hiding the tears welling behind them. “Well maybe I like it fast! Did you ever think of that? No, you just show up to ssslow me down. Well, you can’t stop me now, angel. Because I’m having a good time. I’m having a ball and I don’t want to ssstop.”

He looked at Aziraphale now to see how his words landed. The angel looked like he was reeling, thrown off balance by Crowley’s outburst, clever mind working overtime to put the pieces of it together.

“Did it ever occur to you,” Crowley continued, the slur of alcohol doing little to mask the venom in his voice, “that perhapsss you are the one who needs to ssspeed the fuck up?” 

Aziraphale looked like he’d been slapped, but the shock turned to outrage in an instant. When he spoke, his voice was low, dangerous, and crackling with divine energy. “So that’s what this is about?” 

“Of course it is!” Crowley spat. “I go too fast for you? What am I supposed to do with that, hmm? What the fuck does that even mean? All I did was offer you a lift?”

“NO! ALL YOU DID WAS ASK ME FOR A SUICIDE PILL!” 

Aziraphale’s shouting was so much worse than Crowley had been prepared for. He was reminded why angels often began conversations with “fear not” as Aziraphale’s words echoed and reverberated around him, the divine energy in them not so much crackling now as thundering. The Bentley suddenly seemed too small to contain the angel. His presence loomed and flooded into every spare crevice. Every argument or retort Crowley might have had died in his abused throat as Aziraphale’s unbridled anger closed around him, suffocating him like some ethereal pillow. 

“All you did was ask me to imagine a world without you. A world in which you chose to leave me and I helped you do it. You asked me for the means with which to destroy yourself and expected me to be okay with it.” Aziraphale’s voice broke. He had to pause for a moment to collect himself before he could continue, “As if I ever could! As if I could live with myself afterwards. As if I could live for ETERNITY without you. As if I could live without you at all!” 

Crowley felt himself shrinking, diminished as wave after wave of pain and anger rolled off of Aziraphale and crashed into him. 

“But I did it,” Aziraphle continued, “for you. Because you’ve been selfless for me so many times and this was all you’ve ever asked me for. So I did it even though you didn’t explain why you wanted it or how you intended to use it. Even though it almost destroyed me to do, I did it!”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, to explain, but his voice wouldn’t come. Instead he just gaped at Aziraphale like a fish out of water, which was exactly how he felt, drowning and completely out of his depth. 

“A world without you is the only thing I can’t handle. If all we ever are is unlikely friends then that’s fine, but we only get to be that if we are both _alive_. As long as we are both exist in this world then we have this, we have each other, our friendship, and we have hope, however slight, for all the rest of it that we don’t talk about.”

Crowley’s head snapped up at that. He was suddenly more alert, looking directly at Aziraphale, finding his voice, and filling it with all the cautious hope he could muster. “Angel? What are you talk‒”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Aziraphale snapped. “Do you think I don’t know you lo‒” He grimaced, unable to name what he knew. “Do you think I don’t feel the same?”

“Angel.” Crowley tried to reach for his hand, but Aziraphale snatched it away like the touch might burn him. 

“I don’t know where you are, Crowley.” Aziraphale's voice was soft and tremulous now. “I don't know how you got there or why. I’d like to, but I don’t. I want to catch up. I want to meet you where you are, but I don’t know where that is. I don’t know how to get there. And I’m not entirely sure it’s somewhere we _should_ be. I’m _trying_ , but you go too fast for me.” 

Crowley let this last wave roll over him. A tsunami of Aziraphale’s pain washed through him and mingled with his own. The tears welling behind his glasses spilled over onto his cheeks. The tortured thing in his chest and all the grief and pain it carried with it swelled inside him until the thought he might bust from the sheer volume of it. His hands trembled violently and he lunged over to grasp Aziraphale’s lapels to steady them.

“Stop me.” He breathed, his voice urgent and broken.

“Crowley, I‒”

“Your right, I’m going too fast. I’m out of control and I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know where I’ll land. And I‒ I’m‒ I think I’m _afraid_.” The word came out in a strangled sob. Tears cut rivers down his face and his breath came in shuddering gasps, punctuating his pleas, “Please. Please, angel. Stop. Me. Please. Please. I need you. To stop. Me. Now.” 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He just folded his arms around Crowley, pulled him to his chest, and held him steady. Crowley gasped and sobbed into his jacket and all the while Aziraphale held him fast until the tears exhausted themselves and came to a slow, shuddering stop.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
